


The Rite to Inquire

by MrsBagel



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Historical Accuracy, Religious Conflict, Reveal, Templars, Timed before the final confrontation with Achilles and Liam, Totally not a cult, or trying to be, really hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-12-24 10:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12010965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsBagel/pseuds/MrsBagel
Summary: "You mean to tell me that my husband is a part of some... cult?""Not a cult, Miss Cormac, but an Order of peace."Shay knew this day had to come. It was for her own safety, he told himself, not just a way to slide off his own guilt. This was the best outcome for everyone involved-- so why did he feel like he'd once again betrayed those he loved most?





	The Rite to Inquire

**Author's Note:**

> I find myself really drawn to this idea. The oathes taken upon those indoctrinated forbid them to dispell their order's secrets. But, what about when you want to finally cave in? Surely, there's only one safe way to let your loved ones know the true nature of your work...

He had been waiting for almost twenty minutes, eyes darting from the clock to the stairwell every few prolonged seconds. Time sped on around him, yet ticked slowly away everywhere else. Just what was that woman doing? Rose had already come down the stairs, darting back off into the kitchens to return to her duties, but Abigail had yet to descend. She had to be nervous, likely pacing around the room in a tizzy, over the idea. He had reassured her time and time again that she'd be given a warm welcome, that everything was going to be fine, but his words fell short. The December cold proved more ruthless than they could have imagined, a cruel reflection of barren strife. Winter was proving to be hard on them both, knowing now what they had lost, but Shay was hopeful. Christmas was only days away, and he believed the joy and merriment of the holiday might be just the ticket to lift their spirits; hers and his.

  
Three more minutes ticked away, and he had just pushed off from his seat, when he heard the soft trail of footsteps tiptoeing down the stairs. First came the blue-beige embroidery of cream colored toes peeping out as she descended, thick layers of lace and broadcloth clouding their full designs. Printed silk rolled off her hips in slopes, a fine pattern of soft blues and crimson flowers scattered across ochre vines crawling along the fabric. A bold stomacher displayed a crossing weave of ribbons, cascading reds and whites decorating her abdomen. Tufts of auburn curved along her neck, freshly curled and barely contained by the bonnet holding them still. Funny, he thought, how she chose the same gown when they had married.

  
"I'd forgotten that I left my mitts downstairs to dry. I was... searching."  
"Aye, I'm sure you were." But not for her mitts, of that Shay had no doubt.

  
Her lips quivered, the barest hint of a smile. She knew fell well there was no hope in trying to decieve the man, not when he could read her like an open book. Still, her voice faltered before speaking once more.

"Do you think they'll really accept me?"

"Of course! They're quite a sociable bunch, I'll have you know. Would it put you at ease to know Christopher will be there?"

Well, that would leave her with one familiar face at least. Abigail had become well acquainted with Mister Christopher Gist, Shay's first mate aboard the Morrigan. She was always glad to know that a steadfast and reliable man was there to watch her beloved husband's back. While his exterior could be rough, and his tongue crass, his integrity shone through; at least, around their third meeting or so. While this news did brush the weight off her shoulders, other anxieties burned at her mind. Her lips had parted, ready to voice the nagging ache in heart, but she had no sooner found herself cut off. Salted lips had pursed her own shut; how fearless Shay must be. His affection was swift and without regret, already poised to bear the brunt of her wrath.

"Shay Patrick Cormac! Bless the Lord that I am a good God-fearing woman; silencing me with your wicked lips will not work forever."  
"Was it a God-fearing woman who tried to chased me off with a musket three years ago?" Her face flushed deeply, lips thinned out between embarrassment and anger as he continued, his hand rising to brush against her soft cheeks.  
"You're so much stronger than this, love. You may not remember that, but I do. And by the end of the evening, I have every intent of reminding you, too. So, can you try to have fun tonight?"

Dark teal wells glowered at the floor, a hand instinctively caressing her stomach. Her expression eased into solemnity, voice trailing softly.

"Alright. I'll try."  
"There'll be whiskey."  
"I'll try better, then."

 

 

The carriage had arrived at half past six, right on time. Haytham had been kind enough to arrange for their transportation, which would likely prove a blessing later on in the evening. Shay was a sailing man, a captain, more than capable of holding his drink, but Abigail... He'd snicker just thinking about her last heavy round of drinks the year before.

"They cheat you out of it at church, I tell you. Bloody water is what it is, salted and everything! And they dare to tell me it's the blood of Christ. My arse it is!" The number of Hail Marys she sputtered the day after will forever remain a mystery.

While not a lightweight herself, Abigail had an undeniable weakness for amber colored spirits and their cursed liquid courage. It shed layers of formality beaten into her, revealing the hidden fire that burned deep within her being. All it needed was a little spark.

She was a radiant star in those times, attracting the attention of everyone around with her light. A smile, a song, dancing jigs with a resilient heart and audacious mouth defined Abigail to the core. Even Shay had fallen to her drunken charm all those months ago. But, by then, he had already acquired a longing for her affection thus his bias was easily swayed.

There were some, however, who would veiw their union with unsavory eyes. After all, their marriage was considered blasphemous in nature, with he a Presbyterian, and she a Catholic. In truth, had he not come to know her on such an intimate manner, he may have never known her faith at all. She had learned to guard it with silent secrecy, discovering early in her settlement in the colonies that such a thing was not to be shared. But just as one ought not to declarely loudly their Papist ideals, so too should one refreign from discussing the goings-on of Templar works. Where Shay had come to understand and accept Abigail's beliefs, she scant had a chance to discover his own. But she would, soon.

  
Hooves clattered against ice as their ride drifted to a stop before a salt licked tavern. Thick clouds of smoke oozed forward, a male figure departing from its door to approach the carriage without so much as a second thought. Within seconds, he was inside and seated right besides Shay, stifling a cough into his fist. The man smelled of tobacco and sour wine, mincemeats, gunpowder, spittle and musk of flesh. His woolen coat was singed at the hem, traces of hot ash still lingering within its faded yellow color.

"Bloody cold, it is. Haytham best 'ave that hall of his right and warmed."  
"Good evening to you, Thomas." Shay shook his head, holding back a sly smile.  
"Yea, yea, formalities and all other bullocks t'you too." Thomas muttered, settling into himself as the carriage pulled off. It was only then that his eyes wandered to the female face sitting across the way.  
"Now 'ho would this lovely lady be, Shay? An acquaintance?" Abigail was quick to drive her attention elsewhere, but she could hear the desire in his voice.  
"That would happen t'be my wife, Abigail. I don't believe you two have met."  
"Yea... Pleasure." Thomas's eyes fell, a scowl crowding his face with a disappointed grunt. Shay could only laugh at this, having expected no less from Thomas Hickey. There was a brief exchange of hands and nothing more until they'd reached their destination some ten minutes later.

 

  
Thomas had squirreled his way out first, quick to shuffle inside. He was off to find company, he declared, no doubt in athe shape of a bottle and plate of food. Shay had come next, more watchful of his footing and distinctly observant of his wife's on her way out. The white touch of winter had left an inescapable reminder; another three inches had fallen in the afternoon alone, with the threat of another dusting to follow some time later in the evening. Candlelit lamps reflected their warmth from insid., Soft orbs of light leaked out the windows, giving only the faintest clue as to the manor's splendor. Good, English brick composed most of its exterior, spare only the pillasters that lined the facade. An ornate archway ushered them closet, fine carvings of lions and angels harolding their arrival. It was doubtless to think the owner came from the highest echelon of gentry.

Unquestionably, the inside proved as fine as the outter. The air immediately changed, an intoxicating blend of drink and exotic spices filling the mind with all sorts of pleasantries. Fanciful woodwork, Indian textiles, and all other sorts of exquisite decor gave her even further insight to the greater status of her host, and she had yet to leave the lobby! Jovial chatter, echoes of laughter and the soft coo of strings poured into Abigail's ears. It was so close to relaxing, but far yet enough to leave a bitter feeling of unease. Perhaps a glass of brandy might be enough to tip it within her favor. She had begun to remove her cloak when a skulking figure had approched from beyond her sight.

"Let me get that for you, Missus." Ghostly fingers patted her shoulder, familiar voice bringing Abigail to turn on her heel.  
"Mister Gist!" A toothy grin fell upon Gist's features, arms wide for a friendly embrace.  
"I wondered when you two might show. Shared a ride with Thomas, did you?" Honest to his word, Christopher Gist had gone about taking the couple's heavy coats and gloves, leading the pair in after disposing of the excess.  
"Aye, doubt the man would've left his other businesses be otherwise." Shay sighed.  
"You've got that right. Did he try a pass at you, Abigail?"  
"A fly may look at a painting, Mister Gist, but never touch the feast captured within it." Her words caused both men to snicker.

As the trio joined the collection of men, and to Abigail's joyful surprise, women within the parlor, Shay turned his head. It was in the same fashion he always used whenever he moved on to the prospect of work and business. It seemed that not even in the icy grip of December did a privateer have much time away from the throes of their financiers. Abigail hated it whenever he turned that way, despised in secret how it pulled him from her arms time and time again. Alas, there was no changing the way things were. She knew full well of this when they had wed last January.

"Have you seen Mister Lee come in, by chance?" Shay questioned as he turned toward Gist, the hand grasping onto his wife's not yet fully warmed.  
"Charles? He's been here since the mornin', far's I know. Should be in the study with Haytham, if he's not dominating some poor lads at cards."  
"Thank you," He started, gaze leaning down now to the bundle of auburn curls at his side "I'll be back, love. Promise." The squeeze of his hand cemented his sincerity, before he stepped away through the mist of bodies.

  
Fantastic, she thought. A party chock full of people, where-in only two she knew by face, and only a handful more by name. It was increasingly evident that she really should go out more. Since the wedding, she had simply been... busy. Yes, very busy, taking over certain accounts, ensuring the house be run smoothly and income well managed. Shay had been very trusting in that regard, allowing her to continue local affairs on his behalf, even going so far as to even let her charter some of the smaller fleet shipments. In truth she was quite happy with the state of things, but it wasn't very lady-like now, was it?  
With a frustrated sigh, her eyes rolled, landing on Gist. A smile was forced, exasperation leaving her throat with a coy remark.

"How ever do you keep track of the man, Mister Gist?"  
"I scarcely think a leash could keep him reigned in!" He gave off a hearty laugh, a swig of his drink quick to follow. "Aye, I've simply learned to let him go about things his own way. He always comes back, no?"  
"He does indeed," Abigail mused, eyeing a distant memory, "He does indeed."  
"Come now, I think it's time for some introductions. Maybe a bit of wine, hmm?"  
"A bit of whiskey instead, sir. But yes, please. I can't imagine there to be anyone here you don't know." Her expression eased at the mention of drink. A good fire in her belly would make do with the dreadful sense of unease.

One glass later, she had become remarkably relaxed. A good, solid drink, was just the thing she needed. What did she have to fear anyways? It wasn't as if anyone knew her! No one here would know the tales of poor Abigail, not the gossiping lies, nor the grueling truths, meaning there wouldn't be a single whisper about her father. Yes, this was an excellent opportunity after all; why had she ever thought otherwise? Gist had already taken her around the parlor, giving her the names of fellows left and right. Their businesses all varied greatly between each other, and she had begun to wonder what it was that linked them all together, before her attention had snapped back at the sound of Gist's voice.

"I've saved the best for last; Miss Abigail, I'd like you to meet Margarat Monro, and Prudence Godfrey."

In all honesty the two women had caught her eye right away, not only for their sex, but also for their style. Margarat was an older woman, perhaps around fifty, but she looked marvelous even with age. Once golden brown hair had become mousey and grey, but no less beautiful, not unlike her piercing blue eyes. Her clothing was of a modest cut, but the extravagance of new, shining brocade was not unnoticed. Embroidered lace hems hugged her wrists and collar, a soft gold on black to contrast the deep emerald green of her gown. She appeared kindly, yes, but was decidedly weathly.

Prudence, on the other hand, was a near stark contrast. She couldn't be any older than twenty-five, marking her right around Abigail's age. Her posture was slouched, exuding a sense of relaxed confidence that could easily be mistaken for arrogance. Abigail hadn't the slightest clue about who, or what she was, but could tell instantly that Prudence was a woman in control. It was astounding, really, like the sight of a rare beast just strolling through Manhattan. Everything was a spectacle, from head to toe. Her bodice was short and low, sleeves practically hanging off her shoulders. Her chemise was the only saving grace to keep her bosom from bursting fully into view. Her skirts plumed straight from her hips, a half-skirt tucked and strung to only further show off her bell-like shape. From the bright blue feathers in her hair, to the ribbon around her neck, it was doubtless to say she very much favored French fashions.

"My, who would this be?" Margarat was the first to speak, her smile warm as hearth and home.  
"Yes, Christy deary, do tell." While not obviously accented, Prudence's tongue wagged with direct european influence.  
"Ladies," Gist began with a long draw of breath, "May I introduce you to Abigail Cormac."  
"It's a pleasure to meet you two. Feel free to call me Abby, if you please." Abigail bowed, discreetly smoothing out her gown; How did English silk manage to feel cheap?  
"Cormac?" Prudence questioned, leaning forward in her seat. "You mean like Shay? I wasn't aware he had a cousin."  
"That would be because he doesn't, Pru. Do you remember a certain letter from January?" Gist bowed his head, wide eyed and grinning. In that moment, Prudence stared at him agasp.  
"No! You don't mean--!" Abigail hadn't the slightest clue how to take any of this, preparing herself for a mess of snide remarks. "So you're his wife then, yes? Oh this is wonderful, fantastique!" The woman had taken it upon herself to grab onto Abigail, clutching her hands for dear life.  
"That I am. Next month will be our first year's anniversary." She was taken aback, not only by Prudence's upptiy manners, but the sincerity in her voice. She was a hard woman to read.  
"My late brother was quite amicable towards your husband, Mrs. Cormac. Always had a good word to say about the man, George did. I can only wonder what kind of woman you are to be with him." Margarat's tone shifted as she spoke, wrestling against a well-bred Scottish tongue.  
At that, Prudence shot the old woman a look, along with a tap from her heel to Margarat's seat. "Don't go teasing her so, Margarat! You'll scare her away and then I'll have no one but you and your dust to speak with."

There was an assortment of controlled giggles afterwards; Gist had stepped away at some point, likely enticed by a bottle of rum, leaving Abigail to her own devices, but it wasn't so bad now. Things were going pleasantly, better than she had honestly expected. She had all but forgotten the nerves that ate at her before. Divulging in conversation between Margarat and Prudence revealed a whole world of interest to her. As it turned out, Margarat had come to the colonies for an extended sightseeing trip. From Montreal to Pennsylvania, she wished to see the land her brother had loved with her own eyes. Prudence was more of an enigma. She had some sort of business between England and France, although the exacts were not disclosed. She traveled often, frequently between the colonies, and West Indies, but spoke of the days where she longed for her apartment in Paris. Her family, home in London, would scarcely be able to recognize her these days but with that she had no qualms; a sentiment which Abigail could empathize.

"But enough about us, yes? We would like to know more about you, Abby. Come, please, tell us a story. Where are you from?" Brown and blue eyes both stared intently in wait. Well, it wouldn't hurt to tell them just a little, would it?

"Liverpool, by birth, but I spent more time in Manchester as a child with my mother. Father's a merchant, wholesale, but likes any excuse to go to sea. It wasn't until around five years ago that I'd left and sailed west. Came to Boston to live with my sister, before settling myself down here after she married."

Prudence devoured every word she had to say, eagerly awaiting the next big break. It was as if she suspected a grand scandal behind everything, having seen too many aristocrats and gentry wrapped up in their own lies. Margarat on the other hand was more sympathetic in nature, taking what was given and satisfied with the result, despite how sparse the details were. But of course, they both wanted more to go on, and Abigail could see little wrong in telling, so perhaps...

  
A hand clasped onto her shoulder, heavy and firm, but entirely familiar. Her heart sighed in relief.

"And here I was wondering where you ladies all were! I should've known. Hope I'm not interrupting anything important now." His voice rang in her ears, a charming shanty dancing in her mind.  
"There you are Shay," Margarat began, never taking her chocolate brown eyes off Abigail "We were just getting acquainted with Mrs. Cormac here. I can already see Prudence replacing me with her."  
"You wound me, Margarat. And here I brought you wine from my own collection as a peace offering."  
"A peace offering from France? How fitting." The matron was given a perfectly pouted scowl.  
"Shay, do tell her she's being ridiculous! I bend myself backwards for her and yet she cannot be pleased by anything less than my demise." Prudence defended.  
"How about I tell you that Master Kenway has asked for you in the study, instead, Pru?" His words brought the woman to a halt, gears shifting from petulant foolishness to a something more serious and coy.  
"Very well; I suppose duty does come first after all. We'll settle this another time Margarat, with cards, perhaps?" Prudence smiled slyly, slinking her way out of the parlor.

Abigail released a strained breath, melting into the shape of her husband. While she'd been anxious about coming back into the social scene so soon after the loss of their unborn child, she saw now that it was exactly what she needed to redeem some sense of normalcy. Shay had timed this all so perfectly, that she had to wonder if she'd somehow come to marry an angel. Honest to his word, things had gone smoothly, without so much as a fuss about her attendance. She was welcomed here, just as he'd said. It was a wonderful evening, and one she would surely remember for years to come.

Shay's grasp upon her shoulder tightened. "He'd like to see you too, love."

 

 

  
Had she drunk too much? It was the only fair explanation she could think of, and even then, fell flat when squared against the marginal amount of liquor she'd ingested. Yet, standing there surrounded by a circle of faces, she felt faint. The very world spun her around in a flurry of confusion, leaving her alone in a blurry daze. This didn't make sense, none of it made sense. Templars and Assassins; they threw these words at her as if they should mean something to her, be something to her, but they were hollow. Knights of the Holy Wars and shadowed killers, clashing together through the ages? It was utter rubish, and yet, there Shay stood, backing up the words and positions said. It was absolutely shocking.

"You mean to tell me that my husband is a part of some... cult?" She spat.

"Not a cult, Miss Cormac, but an Order of peace." Master Haytham Kenway spoke with absolute clarity, every word full and concise. He left little room for argument.

Her stomach churned with bitter disgust. This was heresy, was it not? Would she not burn in hell for even allowing such thoughts to cross her mind? But, cross it did. Her husband was a good man, upstanding in character. He cared for the people, and for her. Would he truly dare to risk it all to bring her into something so heinously wicked? If he sided his loyalties to this plight, this cause, then could it have some merit? It couldn't, it shouldn't! This had to be a trick. A test of her faith was before her, and yet, somehow she knew she would fail. A test, yes, but of Protestant or Catholic origin? Were she revealed as a Papist before the wrong crowd, she would suffer worse than she had at the hands of her father. But, if she were to cast aside her beliefs for safety's sake before the very eyes of God...

  
Abigail couldn't win. No matter what, she was left vulnerable and unclean. Time seemed to warp around her in thought, stretching infinitely. Her heart ached, a pain all too familiar pounding in her veins. In the times before, circumstance had forced its hand in her sorrows, but now, it was bound by her own doing. No right, no wrong, her hand would be cast in fire no matter the choice she made now. Her truths had been shattered once before, what made this any different?

"And what use could a woman serve in this Order?" Her voice trembled, tempered with disdain.  
"Many." Haytham replied, "Prudence has proven herself a vital colleague for our Rite. I have no doubt that you too, will rise to the challenge. All we ask for is your compliance. What do you say?"

With a heavy heart, Abigail uttered a single, solemn "Yes."

  
Shay knew this day had to come. It was for her own safety, he told himself, not just a way to slide off his own guilt. This was the best outcome for everyone involved-- so why did he feel like he'd once again betrayed those he loved most?


End file.
